Inoutbox

The walls are stained by my fingers, raw from trying to scratch them away, but they’re unharmed and unmarked on the random spots, here and there, where I broke my knuckles thinking I could knock them down, and the lies and truths that passed me by, and the things I couldn’t be bothered with, were opportunities gone a-begging, moving lips, I couldn’t hear a thing and I don’t know what they said. I don’t remember the things you told me but I do remember you telling me, and I believe the worst of it and I don’t care for the rest, I might have loved the design, though, and I know the machine was ruined before the engineers and the technicians even knew that it existed. The TV is on for now, a million faces and a million voices and a million unthinkable miseries, they knock on the screen from inside and they cannot reach me, it’s all white noise, though, anyway, unless I apply an ear well enough to pick out a particular sound or two and make of it whatever I will. I’m not quite sure of what it was that you knocked into my head, but I wish to God I could only know half of what you knocked out of it. 7th February 2019